by Heide Goody
“Can I leave these two with you?” he said.
“Aye. Thanks, Bob.” Rod reached out a hand to the woman. “Ms Jones. I’m Rod Campbell.”
Kirsten Jones stared at his hand as though human decency and social etiquette was a mystery to her. “It’s, er, Fluke, isn’t it?” Rod said to the samakha.
“Ggh! You know it,” said the fish boy in cautious greeting.
“I’m very sorry about what happened with Pupfish, that is, Michael,” said Rod.
The woman wrung her hands ceaselessly: hand over hand over hand, like she was either desperate for a cigarette or wanted to claw at something. Her face was tired, prematurely aged. Rod guessed that losing your child – even if he was a fish – would do that to a person but he reckoned that life in Fish Town had robbed plenty from her already.
“Where is he?” she said.
“Michael?” said Rod. “My colleague, Nina Seth, is probably the best one to answer that. She was in the club last night.”
“Bitch saved everyone,” said Fluke.
“I gather,” said Rod. “As best as I understand it, Michael – your son – was taken by creatures from something called leng-space.”
“And you’re gonna get him back,” said Kirsten.
“I don’t think it’s as easy as that,” said Rod.
Her composure began to break. This was going to go one of two ways, anger or tears, and Rod wasn’t sure which he liked least. He’d already had to deal with one upset woman today. He didn’t deserve another. He had definitely met his daily quota, possibly weekly.
“What fucking use are you?” she trembled, not angry yet but teetering towards it.
“Leng-space,” Rod began. “It’s not like it’s a regular place we can just…”
“They took him.”
“I know.”
“It’s all right, Kirsten,” said Fluke and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Rod realised that this wasn’t just Pupfish’s mum and one of his mates; something else was going on between these two. “G-man,” said Fluke. “We know that Pupfish is – ggh! – gone. He was a soldier and he’s fallen. What we want to know is what you’re doing ‘bout it.”
“We are following all lines of enquiry,” said Rod.
“Bullshit!” said Kirsten.
“What you doing?” demanded Fluke.
“We are trying to find the man who sold Pupfish the drugs he took that –”
“Drugs?” said Kirsten and then, shrugging off his hand, turned on Fluke. “You were supposed to be looking after him!”
“I was, doll,” said Fluke.
“He was doing drugs?”
“It wasn’t anything. It – ggh! – was just some magic rune muda.”
“You watched him take them?”
There was a panic in Fluke’s huge eyes now. This was much better, thought Rod. Women getting upset with someone else. He was fine with that.
“He’s a grown man,” argued Fluke. “He knew what he was doing.”
“He was eighteen years old! He had his whole life ahead of him!”
“Ggh! Tupac was twenty-five when they gunned him down. Death, babe, it just –”
Rod didn’t get to hear what death just was because Kirsten slapped Fluke hard in the gills at that moment. The fish boy staggered away.
“I don’t fucking care about Tupac, you stupid boy!” she screamed.
“I know you’re – ggh! – angry,” Fluke coughed, “but there’s no reason to disrespect –”
Kirsten followed up the slap with a kick to the groin. The samakha gangster went down, clutching himself.
“Enough,” said Rod and stepped between them. He quickly but firmly steered the weeping woman to the row of seats by the wall. “Lois,” he called to the glass-fronted reception hatch. “A cup of tea for Ms Jones, please.”
“That bastard,” sobbed Kirsten. “Why do I fall for the ones who live at the bottom of a canal.”
“That’s a good question,” said Rod charitably and then had a thought.
He looked round at Fluke, sitting on the hard floor and cradling his codpiece.
“Fluke.”
“What, man?” hissed the wounded samakha.
“You can swim, right?”
Lois went into the office kitchenette to find Nina there stacking cups in the sink.
“Don’t mind me,” said Nina. “I was just sorting out drinks for the interview people.”
“Didn’t know that was on your job description, bab.” Lois found a mug to make tea in. “Anyway, isn’t that Professor Thingy in for interview?”
“He is.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“I do.”
Lois pulled a face, confused, and then nodded. “You spat in his drink.”
Nina put her hands on her hips. “Come on, Lois. I’m better than that.”
Lois swirled the metal teapot that was resting on the counter and felt the side to see how warm it was.
“I wouldn’t if I was you,” said Nina.
“You did spit in it,” grinned Lois, though not entirely approvingly.
“Nope. I just thought that the interviews would go a lot better if there was bit of honesty from the candidates,” said Nina. “Let them see what that bhul-gen Omar is really like.”
The three interview candidates had been placed in meeting room two. As Vivian entered, they sat at their individual tables like well-behaved school children. Cameron Barnes put down his pen and looked up from the notebook in which he had been sketching Venislarn decals. Dr Kathy Kaur placed her phone face down to give Vivian her full attention. Professor Sheikh Omar, waiting patiently, gave Vivian a toothy smile.
“You have the schedule for today,” she told them. “We will start with an in-tray exercise and psychological evaluations before finally taking one or more of you to interview panel with the consular mission chief, Ms Clement from Personnel and myself. At the end of the day, one of you will have succeeded and become the new tech support officer for this facility. The other two will have failed. Any questions?”
“No.”
“No.”
“One,” said Omar, “I would very much like to know what happened to the bull sculpture that adorned the old Bullring shopping centre before it was demolished in the nineties.”
“Is that really pertinent to this interview situation, Professor Omar?”
“Pertinent?” he said. “No. Sorry, you just asked if we had any questions.”
“About today.”
“No.”
“Quite.”
Vivian could not ascertain whether the man was being facetious, perhaps even flirtatious, although for a moment Omar had seemed as surprised by his own question as she had been. Regardless, it was a mark against him, literally. Vivian made a note on her clipboard.
“Slay him!”
Morag Junior squeezed the tea bag against the side of the cup and then plonked it in the bin.
“Slay him!”
There was only an inch of milk in the fridge. She sniffed it to see if it was off, decided it was on the turn but poured it into her tea anyway.
“Slay him!”
She looked in the biscuit tin but there was nothing there. She slouched into the living room.
Steve the Destroyer capered on the arm of the sofa, incandescent with rage.
“What is it?” said Junior.
“The Kyle has presented the ugly oaf with proof that the child is his but does not kill him!”
She looked at the TV screen. “Yeah. That’s not how it works. Jeremy Kyle comes on, accuses him of cheating on her or accuses her of being a gold digger or something and then they shout at each other and maybe start a fight. The audience all start whooping or hurling abuse. And then Jeremy looks all smug.”
The stuffed toy demon turned to give her a full-body “what the hell” gesture. “Then why do they do it?”
“I think they do it because they’re chavs and they think being on TV gives their pointless lives meaning. The
audience watch it because they like to see the personal lives of others torn apart. And the presenter and the TV company put it on because they can dress it up as a human interest piece even though it’s just cruel voyeurism. I don’t know. Daytime TV isn’t a speciality area for me.”
Steve turned back to the TV for a second and then returned to Junior.
“So, all existence is futile and meaningless and the only truth to be gained is through creating artificial confrontation and then sharing our pain with others?”
“That’s pretty much every reality TV show.”
“Even the baking off one?”
“God, yeah,” she said as her phone began to ring. “This is just Great British Bake Off with no cakes and more swearing. Hello?”
“Do you remember exactly where he attacked you?” said Rod.
“I do,” said Junior. “It was just under the balcony of the French bistro place. Pierre something. Why?”
“We’re going to find that wallet. I’ve got us a search diver. Up for it?”
Junior considered the prospect of watching daytime TV until Morag Senior got home. “Totally.”
Vivian sternly put her finger to her lips as Vaughn entered the assessment room. Vaughn pretended not to notice, which came quite naturally to him.
The three candidates were busily writing answers to the in-tray exercise. Vaughn stood next to Vivian and attempted to look over at the question paper. She slid it across so that he could see it more clearly without having to invade her personal space.
PRIORITISE THESE (1-10) AND GIVE A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF HOW YOU WOULD RESPOND TO EACH.
A) EIGHTEEN TONS OF YOBHANI XO HAVE BEEN DELIVERED TO THE VENISLARN MATERIALS RECLAMATION CENTRE. YOU HAVE NO ROOM TO TAKE THEM.
B) A NEW EXHIBIT HAS JUST OPENED AT A LOCAL GALLERY. THE SUBJECT OF THE PAINTINGS APPEARS TO BE A GUPREE, ACCURATELY RENDERED. SEVERAL GUESTS AT THE OPENING HAVE FALLEN ILL, THE ARTIST NOT AMONG THEM.
C) YOU HAVE COMPELLING EVIDENCE THAT THE WORLD WILL END ON THURSDAY. YOUR BUDGET ANALYSIS REPORT IS DUE ON FRIDAY.
D) PRINCE HOLUNH ADHULAS IS VISITING THE CITY AND DEMANDS A FRESH HUMAN BRAIN FOR HIS DINNER.
E) THE FAHAIB’SOREE ARE RISING AGAIN. YOU HAVE NO BONE MARROW IN STOCK.
F) IN TWO HOURS, YOUR COLLEAGUE WILL GIVE BIRTH TO THE KAATBARI WHICH WILL SIGNAL THE END OF THE WORLD.
G) FOR A BET, TWO STUDENTS HAVE BROKEN INTO THE VENISLARN “MENAGERIE” IN DUDLEY.
H) YOUR GRANDMOTHER HAS COME TO VISIT. YOUR GRANDMOTHER DIED SOME YEARS AGO. IT IS TUESDAY.
I) A CHILD HAS FOUND A YETSID SHELL AND IS CURRENTLY IN HOSPITAL SPEAKING IN THE LANGUAGE OF AKLO.
J) A MAMMONITE BUSINESSMAN HAS STARTED THE WIDESPREAD PURCHASING AND STOCKPILING OF HUMANS.
Vaughn pointed a finger at the last item.
“Really?” he said witheringly.
Vivian shushed him.
His finger roved over to the blue rune squares she was sorting through on the desk. She had made two piles.
“Why the two piles?” he whispered.
“Mr Sitterson, I will have to ask you to be quiet or leave,” she said. “There is a test taking place.”
She could have told him that the largest pile was of papers marked with the twelve known runes of Kal Frexo. The others, in the much smaller pile, were marked with runes unknown to her (although a couple looked vexingly familiar). The natural assumption was that these were examples of the lost runes, now found, but she wasn’t going to be making any hasty judgements on the matter. Even in the Venislarn world, there were such things as hoaxes.
“7 Mermaid Drive. 15th April.”
Morag Senior wrote the address and the date on a Post-it note and stuck it on the map, close to Mermaid Drive. Nina shuffled through to the next photocopy and read out the address and the date.
Senior knew she could have done it electronically but it was sometimes just better to plot things out physically. Nina had disagreed on that point, more than once, but Senior was in a determined mood and was using her non-existent injuries to garner sympathy.
She had pinned a large city-wide map to the office wall and they were working their way through the copies of soul cash certificates Vivian had taken from Mammon-Mammonson Investments. An indistinct pattern – but a pattern nonetheless – had emerged very quickly. The soul cash certificates had been sold throughout the centre of the city but, beyond that, only in a fairly narrow corridor that led away from the city at a four o’clock angle.
Senior placed the next Post-it, representing one of the first certificates the dealer had sold.
“I reckon he lives near here,” she said.
“Where? Shirley?” said Nina.
“Here. And don’t call me Shirley.”
“The place is called Shirley.”
“Um. I know. I was being funny. It’s like that joke off Airplane.”
“Airplane?”
“It’s a film.” Senior sighed. “Before your time.”
Nina nodded slowly. She had a low opinion of things that were “before her time”.
“I know what this is,” she said, indicating the line of Post-its coming out of the city. “It’s the number six bus route. Except here.” She drew a finger along the relatively short spur that jutted away from the Shirley high street.
“No,” said Senior. “That’s the route he walks to get to the bus stop.”
Vivian placed a box in front of each of the candidates. The boxes were white, unmarked and the approximate size of a shoe box. She returned to her own table.
“You have fifteen minutes.”
“What is this?” asked Cameron Barnes.
“The next activity,” said Vivian. She had already glanced at his answers to the in-tray exercise. Cameron’s answers had demonstrated a level of technical expertise but his handwriting suggested a lack of organisation and a libertarian mindset. She had noted as much on her clipboard.
“Vivian tends towards the enigmatic,” said Sheikh Omar.
Kathy put her ear to the box, sat back and then carefully lifted off the lid. Her apprehensive expression softened at once.
“Awww.” She pulled out the Dendooshi pup and hugged its hairy body to her chest.
“Oh, okay,” said Cameron and opened his box.
On spring legs, a red and black ranndhu leapt out and attached itself to his face. He kicked, pivoted backwards and fell off his chair. Vivian raised her pen to make a final, damning mark on her clipboard… But then the man did redeem himself some small amount by binding the creature with a shadz line and immediately asking Vivian if it was carrying eggs.
“No, Mr Barnes. It was a sterile female.”
As Cameron returned the struggling ranndhu to its box and himself to his seat, rubbing the red puncture marks on his face, Vivian turned to Professor Sheikh Omar. He sat with his hands on the table either side of the box, perfectly still.
“Aren’t you going to open it, professor?” she asked.
“Is there a reason why I should?” he replied.
“Is there a reason why you shouldn’t?”
“Plenty,” he said. “Shall I list them?”
“If you would.”
Morag Junior paced along the canal. In daylight, the stretch of water from Broad Street to the Cube looked entirely different. Gone were the shadowy doorways and cold lights on water, replaced now by non-descript brickwork and a squadron of ducks that had swum over in optimistic expectation of bread. She looked up at the balcony seating area of the French restaurant above their heads. She looked down at the small mooring posts set into the edge of the canal.
“This one,” she said, more to herself than anyone.
“What’s that?” said Rod.
She pointed at the water. “I threw the wallet in here.”
Rod turned to Fluke. “You heard the lady.”
The samakha gangster-boy looked at the murky brown. “That’s some manky muda, man.”
“The name and address of the man who did for your frie
nd is down there. It might have drifted a bit but there’s no current.”
“Ggh!” spat Fluke distastefully and began to undress.
“I’m sure Pupfish’s mum will be very grateful,” Rod added.
Fluke laughed at that. He stripped to his trousers and passed his T-shirt and baseball cap to Junior as though they were the holy relics.
“None of this shit touches the ground, y’hear?” he said and then dove in, slicing into the water like a knife through flesh.
The ripples spread out and died.
“We could have got a police diver, you know,” said Junior.
“This is a low-profile operation,” said Rod. “Vaughn gave us all a bit of a bollocking this morning. We’ve been warned to stay away from the Mammonites.”
“This has got nothing to do with the Mammonites,” said Junior, waving at the canal.
“Not yet,” said Rod. “But when we follow the trail…”
Fluke emerged from the water with a splash, a Brummie-style Creature from the Black Lagoon. He slapped something flat and soggy on the towpath. Rod nudged it with his toe.
“That’s a kebab, lad.”
Fluke sneezed out a mouthful of brown silt. “And…”
A webbed hand dumped a load of loose change next to the kebab.
“Where there’s muck there’s brass,” said Rod.
“You what?” said Fluke.
“You’re meant to be looking for a wallet,” said Junior.
“All right, girl. Ggh! It’s blacker than Darth Vader’s helmet down there.”
“I thought you might be able to…” Junior made vague sensory gestures.
“You wanted echolocation, you should’ve got yourself a dolphin,” snorted the samakha and dived again.
“Echolocation,” said Rod. “That’s a big word for a fish boy.”